


A Single White Rose

by delighted



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Hayes lives, Shore Leave, barely Trek, on Earth, post-Xindi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-05-04 13:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5336573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delighted/pseuds/delighted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Xindi mission, all Malcolm Reed wants to do is hide away somewhere familiar and lick his wounds. Fortunately, he has the perfect place to do just that. After all, he’s done it many, many times before....</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Single White Rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Eireann](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eireann/gifts).



> So, I really wanted to write something for E for her birthday. I hadn’t written anything Trek yet, so it seemed like the perfect time to start—though, honestly, this is barely Trek. It completely took on a life of its own, and I’m afraid I let it. Still, I hope she enjoys it. 
> 
> This is the longest fic I’ve written. By a whole great big long LOT. So, you know, hopefully the plot-ness and all works at least a little.

Really, Malcolm just wanted to hide. The overwhelming press attention had been too much for all of them, but for the reserved Brit, it had been intolerable to the point of breaking. Fortunately, he knew just where to hide away for the remainder of their shore leave, and he hadn’t even had to ask. God, he hadn’t seen Holly in ages. He’d actually been surprised to hear from her—after all, he wasn’t one of hers anymore—but he had been so incredibly relieved, he’d accepted without hesitation. She was just the balm his broken soul needed. Again.

She lived at the end of a picturesque lane in a small village in the north of England. Her tiny cottage backed up to the woods, and her overflowing garden mingled untidily with the wild plants, lending the whole place an air of fairy tale magic. The front walk was flanked by two huge, ancient, white rose bushes. He breathed in deeply as he walked past them and smiled. He would always associate the smell of true roses, roses like these—not modern roses, but real English roses—with her. She stood waiting on the path, and slipped her arm thru his and smiled.

“That’s better,” she whispered. “Smell the roses, love.”

He turned to her and kissed her check. “Thank you for rescuing me,” he sighed. “Again.”

“Of course,” she replied sternly. “Always.”

*

Malcolm never truly understood how it was he could be so easy with her. So totally comfortable and at ease. And never with anyone else. She’d attempted to explain it to him numerous times, although on at least one of those occasions they’d both been exceedingly drunk, and he'd been convinced she was literally making words up. She said it had to do with _hiraeth_ (which was Welsh), and that they shared a sense of “home” in their hearts, and acknowledged it in each other. He thought it was because he was totally and completely in love with her, and knew she was with him—but in an utterly platonic way.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t tried. They had. Several times. But they always fell flat. They could literally sleep wrapped around each other, entwined, body and soul, and not twitch even a little. More than once, Malcolm had thought it might be why he was miserable at relationships. She was so comforting, so embracing, in just exactly the way he needed. And he never had found anything even close to that with anyone else.

She’d made their favorite meal—a single pot stew type thing with mushrooms foraged from the woods, fresh herbs from her garden, and local beef. He reached right for the wine, pouring them really full glasses, and handed hers to her before taking a big sip of his, setting his glass down, and wrapping his arms around her as she stirred the stew. She pulled him in closer—he knew it was so she could make sure he was breathing deeply enough—and he took a long slow breath, basking in the scent of the herbs.

“ _Real food_ ,” he sighed. The only place he really enjoyed food, really savored it, really indulged, was her kitchen. Food had been too stiff an affair at home. And institutional food, no matter the passion of the chef, was just that. He’d always assumed he just wasn’t especially fond of food. But the first time he’d eaten at her place he’d been astounded, totally overwhelmed by the smells, the textures, the love he could taste in her cooking. No other food ever compared.

Dessert was a delightful concoction of fresh wild berries and even fresher cream. Lots of cream, she insisted, because it was comforting. She never complained about him looking too thin or too pale. She just managed to get him to eat more—and drink more—and the paleness he knew she’d attack in the morning with some task for him in the garden.

It was getting late and chilly, so they snuggled on the sofa with glasses of port and chattered mindlessly about meaningless things. He knew she’d slipped something in his drink so he’d sleep dreamlessly. She had probably chosen the herbs in the stew with a similar end in mind as well. He allowed his thoughts to drift, knowing he wouldn’t have to be afraid of his dreams.

After all, they’d done exactly this far too many times.

*

Malcolm awoke in the morning to sunlight streaming in thru the lace curtains in her bedroom window. He took a deep breath, knowing what he’d smell, and smiled. Coffee and cinnamon. His stomach grumbled, which was amazing considering how well he’d eaten the night before, and he pushed himself up against the mound of fluffy pillows that framed the bed.

Holly appeared in the doorway with two mugs of steaming coffee, bare legs sticking from under a well worn sleep shirt, feet fluffy in thick socks that were clearly hand knitted. She smiled.

“I know you prefer tea,” she said. “But I made coffee.”

It was part of their ritual—he only ever drank coffee with her. She would allow him herbal tea in the evening, but insisted on coffee in the morning over his usual tea, because it helped break the routine. He was fairly sure she’d slipped something in his coffee as well, but he couldn’t be sure. Her smile seemed to hint at it though.

“That’s ok,” he replied with a dash of smirk. “Coffee will do just fine.” He very intently breathed in over his mug, and the familiar scent of cinnamon mixed with coffee brought him, as it always did, a feeling of contentment and safety.

She crawled back into bed with him, and snuggled back against the pillows. “So,” she began, and he knew his task was about to be discussed. “Garden or woods?”

He thought about it, but the darkness of the wood was not the right thing for him at the moment—and he wanted to be close to the roses.

“Garden,” he replied.

“Of course,” she smiled.

*

After a breakfast of cinnamon scones, scrambled eggs, and fresh fruit with more cream, they put on their gardening clothes and headed out for the day’s chores.

Though the walled part of the garden was small, it was crammed with plants, most of which Malcolm knew Holly included in her various recipes. Considering how “used” the garden was, it always surprised him how untended the garden looked. He had a feeling she kept it that way so there was always work to be done when he came. He’d always loved gardening, though he’d not been allowed to do it at home—not masculine enough work for a man, in his father’s eyes. But he’d loved to sneak out and help his mom with her plants when they were alone. Holly knew this, and knew he’d always pick the garden work over clearing downed trees in the woods or chopping firewood (though once he’d been too angry to garden, and had begun the day by adding significantly to her wood pile).

“The bulbs need dividing, I think,” Holly said, pointing to some dainty looking white flowers. They looked like stars, and that made him smile.

“Righty-o!” He replied, and they began to dig.

Lunch was a simple affair of cold meat, fresh bread, and local honest to goodness ale. Holly spread a blanket on the ground, and they ate right there in the garden. As they ate, they caught up.

“How’s JJ?” He asked, around a mouthful of bread slathered with homemade butter.

She smiled warmly, her feelings for her cousin clear on her face. “Lovely as always,” she said. “Though, he has a new boss, and they’re having a bit of a hard time.”

Malcolm nodded knowingly. JJ was in some branch of the military, he knew that much, not more, but it was enough—new COs could be rough to adjust to, he knew that all too well.

“If he needs any advice....” He started, but drifted off when he caught the tilt of her head as she watched him, and the dance and sparkle of her green eyes, as though she were amused by something. “What?” He asked. She shook her head, and made the “go ahead” signal for him to continue, as she sipped her ale. “Just, I’ve been thru that myself many times,” he sighed. “It takes some adjusting to, is all.”

“And how’s your new crew?” She asked, tone carefully neutral.

He caught the irony. “Takes some adjusting as well,” he admitted.

“Maybe good to remember that goes both ways,” she hinted softly.

He sighed. “Yeah....” He drifted off to thoughts of the MACOs, and one MACO in particular. There wasn’t much Malcolm felt bad about, of his own behavior, during the Xindi mission, but his treatment of a certain MACO was like an itch under his skin. He wasn’t great with apologies, he knew. But maybe he could try.

“How’s Maddy?” She asked, and he knew she was drawing him out of this thoughts.

“You’d probably know better than I would!” He laughed, maybe a touch bitterly. Another area where he knew he wasn’t great.

“You’re a horrible big brother,” she chided him. “JJ could teach you a thing or two about keeping in touch with the women in your life,” she scolded. “He’s busy too, but he always finds time to write.”

Malcolm grunted noncommittally, ducking his head. Holly didn’t reply, and he knew she was waiting for him to make eye contact. Eventually, he looked up at her thru his lashes.

“Don’t give me those eyes, Malcolm Reed,” Holly warned. “They might work on softer hearts, those with a weakness for long eyelashes....” Malcolm laughed at that. She looked sternly at him. “But they will not work on me.”

She smiled kindly, and he knew she was worried about him, his lack of connections to people actually physically in his life—it was one of her favorite topics.

“Is there truly no one you would confide in, if you needed?”

He sighed, warring with his own thoughts on the topic. He had actually been thinking about just that rather a lot recently. Especially after some of the events of the Xindi mission.... He had to admit, it would have helped if he’d felt he had someone on his side, someone in whom he could truly trust.

Her unnerving way of knowing his thoughts didn’t often surprise him, but he startled a little when she said: “You have to let them try.”

He finished his ale and set it aside, as a sign to end that line of conversation, and she let him—but he knew she’d bring it back up.

“I always feel like I’m in a history book when I’m here,” Malcolm sighed, leaning back against the sweet chestnut tree they were sitting beneath. He was exhausted from the work they’d been doing, but it was a very different exhaustion from the kind with which he was too, too familiar. He was filthy, covered in rich English soil, but he felt cleaner than he had in a long time.

She leaned forward and kissed him, gently, on the lips. “That’s precisely the point, my love,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes and smiled, taking a deep breath and allowing himself to enjoy the moment.

He knew what was next. And he knew he needed it. But he wasn’t looking forward to it.

*

The first time he’d met Holly had been after a mission that had gone horribly wrong. It had been one of his first, and it had been the fault of his training officer, who had realized his mistake too late, and who had just managed to save Malcolm’s life—at the cost of his own. Malcolm had barely been able to follow the extraction plan and had passed out while waiting for rescue. He’d come to in Holly’s bed, the smell of the roses in a vase on the bedside table the first thing he’d been aware of as he slowly drifted back to consciousness. And so it had begun.

He was never quite sure what exactly it was that Holly did. Other than bring him back from the brink, restore his soul, and get him somehow able to go back into the field. He knew he wasn’t the only one for whom she performed that monumental task, though he liked to imagine he was the one to whom she felt closest. He rather supposed that her position was an unofficial one (though she’d proven on more than one occasion to have clearance at some very high levels), partly because she’d come to his rescue after Section missions as well as his much earlier MI6 work. And then, there had been the one time when he’d been staying at the cottage for purely recreational purposes when she’d been commed by “headquarters” and had disappeared for several days, only to appear late one night, snuggling up to him in bed, smelling far too like explosives and shock. He'd been the one to comfort her then, and though she never told him what had happened (“Above your pay grade, darling."), he did think that his being there had endeared him to her—as much as she’d been beloved to him by that point.

*

After his bath—a real bath, in a real tub, with real English well water—he curled up on the sofa by the fire. Holly’s white cat, Dickon, made his way onto the willing lap and began his task of purring and keeping the lap’s owner from reading his book. Malcolm knew he’d have an hour before dinner, and Holly insisted he rest, but he found himself twitchier than usual. It wasn’t that he hadn’t worked hard enough in the garden—he was amazed at how much he was able to accomplish, almost as much as he was amazed that she always had so much for him to do. Maybe it was because of the nature of the “mission” this time. Maybe it was because he was different—so very different if he thought about it—than he had been the last time he’d found solace in Holly’s arms. Enterprise, after all, had been meant to be his escape from that whole world—her world. Maybe he was afraid she wouldn’t be able to succor him this time. That this time, the wounds were different, and this time, they wouldn’t heal—not in the way they had before. He shuddered slightly at the thought, and Dickon expressed his displeasure at the interruption with a sharp dig of claws in his side.

“Easy there, boy,” Malcolm cooed. “It’ll be alright.” He tried to convince himself to trust that it would be. Finally, his fatigue (no doubt prodded by the herbs and mineral salts he knew Holly had put in his bath water) won out, and he drifted somewhat haltingly off to sleep.

This time his sleep was not dreamless. They were vague, shifting, shapeless dreams. Odd impressions, sounds, flashes of light, with no meaning. Unsettling, but not especially disturbing. Nothing clearly indicating the torment of the past months. More hinting at the overall ill at ease feeling that had filled every pore, every fiber of his being, and which he hadn’t been able to shed. Like something was irrevocably different, but he wasn’t yet sure precisely what it was.

He woke with a start, much to the chagrin of the cat, who leapt off the sofa with a mew.

Holly was sitting across from him, sipping a glass of wine, a thoughtful look on her face. Malcolm knew she was watching him for signs of where he was in processing what had happened. He knew, too, that she knew exactly where he was. That never surprised him anymore. It had once. But that had been long, long ago. He smiled weakly and sat up. She handed him a glass of wine, and he knew without asking that this one had no special somethings in it that would keep him from dreaming tonight. He took a big gulp anyway, and asked if food was ready.

A smile spread slowly across her face. “Hungry again, are you? Good.”

They ate sitting by the fire, plates balanced on their laps. More fresh bread with real butter, a rustic meat pie, and roasted vegetables. Malcolm savored every bite, even having seconds of the meat pie. He tried not to eat too fast, but he was fairly sure he knew what was for dessert. He knew Holly well enough to know that she felt bad about what was going to happen that night, and was probably attempting to make up for it by baking his favorite dessert. He smiled at the sweet memory of Enterprise: not the pineapple cake that was his "discovered" favorite. The favorite that was his only with Holly. Sure enough, she brought out ridiculously large servings of her sticky toffee pudding along with the entire pitcher of cream. He pulled her on to his lap for a kiss, once she set the plates on the coffee table. She wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly.

“We don’t have to do this, you know. It’s not my job this time,” she whispered. He could tell she was only just holding back tears. He pulled back enough to kiss her head, smoothing back her hair. She’d buried her face against his chest, and her breathing was ragged. Malcolm felt a wave of panic for the first time since walking up her front path. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe this was too much for her. Maybe she deserved better....

It was as if she knew exactly what he’d just thought, the way she pulled back suddenly, fixing him with her intent stare, as if she could look right into his heart.... And, he thought, she probably could. “Don’t,” she bit out. “Don’t you dare start down that road again, Malcolm Reed.” Tears began to fall from her eyes. “Don’t you even dare.”

He reached out, wiped her tears away, and tugged gently on her chin, pulling her into a sweet, soft, lingering kiss. “I promise,” he whispered onto her lips.

She stayed on his lap, almost as if he was grounding her, keeping her present, while they fed each other the pudding and cream. He paid attention to her breathing this time, and it wasn’t until he could tell she had regained her composure that she slid off, cleared the dishes, and brought him a glass of the familiar brew.

Her gaze on him was uncertain, and the hand holding the special glass was wavering slightly. He sensed she wouldn't be the one to force it this time, though there'd been more than one time when she had. He knew she was remembering those times as well, by the faltering of her smile, and the wateriness of her eyes. He reached out for the glass. She pulled back slightly, so he tried to coax her with his eyes. He could tell the moment she gave in, a second before she fell to her knees. Grabbing the glass and setting it aside, he pulled her back into his arms and rocked her slowly.

He felt her shudder, and her breath hitched, then she started to murmur softly. “Never been so worried about you... so frightened... so afraid... missed you so much....” She ended in silent tears, and he began shushing her as he rocked her back and forth. It occurred to him that he had seriously underestimated how emotional their reunion had been for Holly, when he realized she had cried herself to sleep. He released her to the sofa, covered her with the blanket, and stood, stretching his back.

Well. Malcolm didn’t even know where to begin, but he knew he had a lot of thinking to do, and if he was honest with himself, that was something he was not overly fond of doing. Which was probably how he’d got himself into this spot in the first place. With a deep breath, and a slight shake of his head, he picked up the glass and studied the dark liquid that filled it. He knew some of what was in it. Knew that he wasn’t supposed to know all of it, and knew he didn’t want to. Holly had shared some of it with him on his very first visit with her, because she’d found she had to adapt her usual recipe to better suit him. It had been... well, fun wasn’t quite the right word, but he’d enjoyed watching her puzzle it out, finding the right blend for him. What he _did_ know is how it felt, what it did inside him.... Someone had worked out long ago that field agents compartmentalized exceptionally well, and that it was their great strength, but also their biggest weakness. Almost as though there was a limit to the compartment, and if it overflowed, it could be disastrous. For the psyche of the agent, sure, but that was less a concern than what it might mean for the mission, other agents, or the powers that be. So, someone had discovered that a forced emptying of the tucked away baggage could be a restorative, preventative—an incredible tool. The fact that it temporarily wrecked absolute havoc on the agent himself was a slight problem, however, and that, evidently had been where Holly’s grandmother had come in.

Gertrude had been married to the head of the training division when it had been determined that a “cleansing” of sorts would be of great benefit to MI6 agents. His wife being an adept hand at herbs and flowers, ancient medicines, he had suggested they might prove more helpful than “modern” science at restoring the soul. They’d given her the cottage at the edge of the woods, and an unofficial position as “Potions Master” (which was evidently a reference from an old children’s book), and she’d worked tirelessly to develop a process that could be helpful to the system, but also healing for the agents. It was a fine line to balance, and Malcolm did not envy those who attempted it, though he had more cause than most to be grateful they had tried. But maybe this time he needed to do it on his own.

He took another long look at the liquid in the glass, and set it aside on the mantle before settling into the chair next to the fire and picking back up his book.

*

Holly woke not long after, sitting slowly, and looking down at her lap, as if she were embarrassed to meet his eyes.

It was Malcolm's turn to be concerned.

"Do _you_ have anyone you talk to?" He asked, soft but firm. He could be protective too.

She nodded, still looking down at her hands. "JJ." She said, softly. "He's not officially got clearance, but there's a provision for vetted family members, and, well.... Grandma kind of made sure I'd have a safety valve. I keep it vague, use pet names." She looked up at him. "I name you all," she said.

He laughed. "I don't think I want to know mine," he replied.

She ignored his attempt to lighten the mood. "He knows about you....." She looked worried about how he'd take that.

"I had rather assumed you talked about me with him," Malcolm began, unsure why she was so concerned.

She shook her head. "No, I mean he _knows_."

"Ah," he said, processing.....

"He guessed." She looked embarrassed. "I kind of freaked out...when..... And, he guessed."

"Oh, Holly....." Malcolm didn't know what to say. He wasn't used to having someone be concerned about him. He reached out towards her, and she grabbed his hand.

"I was afraid you'd be too willing to sacrifice yourself. Afraid you'd _want_ to." She sighed, and he knew she'd had valid reasons to worry about that. He hated himself a little for that, looking in her sparkling green eyes, and seeing the pain there.

"JJ knows me too well," she huffed out a laugh. "Said he'd suspected, long before that. I don't know how..... Well. You all got a lot of press.... And," she smiled proudly. "He's really good at his job."

Malcolm had been thinking, while she was speaking. Ordinarily, he would have been mortified to be "uncovered," but he was not like that with Holly.... And, if JJ was the one person Holly could trust....

"Well," he started. "You trust him...." She nodded emphatically. "And I trust you," he smiled softly when she gulped with emotion at the admission.

He kissed her hand, and squeezed it. "Then, I suppose I shall trust him."

She pulled him onto the sofa next to her, and curled up against him.

"Oh, Mal, I wish you did have someone to trust." She squeezed him tightly and snuggled in closer. "Is there really no one you think you could?"

He sighed. He almost thought he could still feel the bruises from a fight that had, if he was honest, been about exactly that. "Maybe......" He whispered.

She took a deep breath at that. "Good," she replied firmly. "I'd like that."

He smiled sadly, thinking he'd like it too, probably more than he could admit. Maybe it was time he tried.

*

They slept tangled and fitful that night, both stumbling into and out of hazy dreams, each comforting the other when either was upset by what they saw, remembered, imagined. It was new, and different, and comforting in a really scary way for Malcolm. A little raw, a bit ragged. But full of hope and promise and love.

In the morning, he was exhausted, like he hadn’t slept at all. But he felt refreshed, and oddly more awake than he’d felt in months. Holly looked a bit more battered. He knew she was as unused to sharing her own emotions as he was his. She had JJ, yes, but who knew how far away he was, how often they saw each other.

“I’ll be right back,” Holly said, tumbling out of bed.

Malcolm smiled sadly as she left. God, he was going to miss this. Home. Coziness. Affection. The garden. The roses…. He felt a little shaken by his own admission. He must be more tired than he thought, he told himself. He imagined they’d still go for their walk today, their tradition for the “morning after,” even though last night had been far, far different from the usual.

Holly returned with two steaming mugs, and he knew right away it wasn’t coffee.

His eyes almost pricked with moisture at the thought. This was new indeed. He tried to laugh away his emotion, wanting desperately not to have to wipe actual tears from his eyes.

She bit her lip, at the look on his face, and tilted her head. “Oh, Mal. Sweetie. It’s time. It’s so time. You need this. For real.”

He closed his eyes and swallowed at the thought. He knew what she meant—not with her. He shook his head slightly, and she climbed in next to him, handing him his mug, and kissing his cheek. “Yes, dear one. Yes. You do.”

He took a sip of the tea, sealing his resolve, and turned to face her. “So do you.” He said, as sternly as he could.

She sighed.

He left it for the moment, but it was his turn, he decided, to make her come back to it. “Shall we walk today?”

She brightened at that. “What a lovely idea.”

*

Malcolm loved the gardening. Loved the toil, loved the dirt, loved the plants—green, fresh, growing things.... But he loved the walks as well. _Nothing beats England for hill walking_ , he sighed to himself.

After a quick breakfast of leftover cold meat pie, Holly packed a picnic lunch (“You’re impossibly romantic,” Malcolm teased. Just for that she made him carry it in his pack.), and they set off, out the back of the garden, thru the overgrown path in the woods (“Ok, next time I visit, I’ll work on clearing this,” he sighed, as they stumbled over fallen branches.), and up to the hills.

It was a clear day—a rarity, but fitting his mood—and the air was cool and crisp and clean, and so unlike ship air, he almost felt like staying. He tried to stop that line of thought, scolding himself. Holly still looked a little bruised around the eyes from her crying, and Malcolm was determined to cheer her up. They chatted mindlessly—teasing, playful, loving—till they reached the top of the first hill, where they stopped for a drink and a rest. Hill walking, like gardening, was exerting in a way so different from all his combat training, he felt a little winded.

He spotted a gorse patch, and having set his pack down to get the drinks out, he walked over and carefully plucked a sprig.

“ _Planta genista_ for your hair, m’lady,” he said gallantly, and stuck the yellow flowers gently into the messy tangle of hair piled on top of Holly’s head.

The gesture, perhaps as much as the reference, made her smile hugely.

“Why, thank you, my lord.” And she curtsied.

They walked more slowly after that, in deference to their lack of sleep, but also as though the slower pace could hold his inevitable departure at bay for longer. When they finally stopped for lunch, they lingered a good deal longer than usual—even taking some photos, so they could hold on to the moment more firmly.

“I’ll come back soon, to visit,” he assured her.

She swallowed, and tried to smile. “I know.”

*

They had a nap on the sofa when they returned from their walk, sleeping dreamlessly, or nearly so, and awoke feeling cheerful enough for a celebratory dinner. Malcolm offered to cook, which delighted Holly to no end.

“I’ve been watching you for years,” he said. “I think I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

He made a simple, rustic shepherd’s pie, while Holly made a custard for dessert. They ate at the table, with candles lit, and great fistfuls of the white roses from the garden filling a bowl. She’d taken the gorse out of her hair before their nap—it was in a small vase on the mantle, next to the full glass he’d left there the night before—so, Malcolm pinched a single white rose from the bunch on the table, and tucked it behind her ear.

“They’re perfectly your flower,” he smiled, lovingly. “Always make me think of you.”

She tilted her head to the side, her eyes twinkling with mirth, like they had once before, as though she were amused by something.

“What?” He asked, curious.

She shook her head slightly. “JJ says the same thing,” she murmured.

“Well, clearly, he’s a smart man,” Malcolm replied, not at all surprised that the two men who loved Holly most would see the same connection.

“You have a lot in common,” Holly mused.

Malcolm smiled softly. “I’d like to meet him someday,” he replied, wondering how she’d react. Technically, he knew, it wouldn’t be considered appropriate.

“Maybe you will,” she said, thoughtfully. “Some day.”

They toasted to that with their wine, and enjoyed their last evening together.

*

The next morning, Malcolm arose early, leaving Holly still sleeping in the bed, and wandered one last time around the garden, slowly, mindfully, as though memorizing every leaf, every flower, to carry with him, back amongst the stars. He paused longest by the rose bushes, and picked one for himself, to press, and keep, tucked away in his book—a reminder of her, a way to have her close by even while he was too far away.

He sat for a while on the bench at the side of the path, breathing in the rose-scented air, and thinking about how things had shifted during his few days here. There was still a hint of that slightly ill at ease feeling that had indicated to him that something was irrevocably different, only he thought now he had a slightly better idea of what it was. He did feel rather exposed, a little turned inside out, maybe. But he realized he felt more hopeful than he usually did after a visit to Holly—like there were new possibilities he’d hardly dared think of before—and he felt a surge of resolution that might just propel him to take a step he’d held himself back from wanting to take.

With a deep breath, he stood, nodded slightly to the roses, and headed inside.

They ate companionably in mostly silence, a simple breakfast of bread, homemade jam, and soft boiled eggs. And really big mugs of tea.

She sat on her bed watching him pack, and it reminded him of how he’d been in the garden that morning. Like she was memorizing him. He tried to give her comforting looks, but eventually gave up, and crawled back into bed and just held her.

When he felt she’d settled, he finished packing, then led her down stairs.

She kissed him goodbye on the stoop, whispering for him to be safe, and to come back. To always come back.

He turned at the end of the garden path to look back one last time, waved as cheerfully as he could, and headed to the shuttle stop in the village.

***

Malcolm took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves. Nothing odd about his checking in, it would be considered normal, polite. Okay, so maybe that would shock some people, but there was such a thing as fresh starts, right? Taking another deep breath, and his mind must have been playing tricks on him, because he was sure he smelled Holly’s roses, he pressed the buzzer.

“Hang on!” He heard from inside. Then a loud thud, soft swearing, and a flushed face was at the door, expression swiftly moving from amusement to shock to professional. “Sorry, sir.” He appeared to gather himself. “Can I help you?”

Malcolm wavered, thinking maybe this was a bad idea, maybe he should just let sleeping dogs lie, but something in his expression must have proved insightful to those green eyes, and pushed them to take the lead.

“Would you like to come in, sir? I was just unpacking.” Hayes moved aside to let Malcolm in, and something about the gesture struck some chord in Malcolm, though he couldn’t quite place it.

Hayes kicked his duffle out of the way, and cleared off his chair so Malcolm could sit. He evidently sensed that whatever it was that had brought his superior officer to his cabin was not going to come out easily, as he moved to his closet and pulled out a bottle.

“Offer you a drink?” He suggested, with an easy air about him that Malcolm felt as new, and yet knew that it had been there all along... he just hadn’t been willing to see it. But there was something familiar about the tilt of his head and the way his eyes sparkled as if he were amused....

Malcolm shook himself out of his musing, and nodded wordlessly, and as he did, he turned to see the board above the desk. And there, at the corner, held in place with a magnet, was a single pressed white rose. He stilled, in shock, as the realization dawned. When he turned to look at Hayes, he saw that his observation had been noted, and he saw acknowledgment in those eyes. They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, then Hayes handed Malcolm a familiar glass with golden liquid from the bottle in it. Malcolm looked at the glass in his hand, and back up to those unwavering eyes.

“You’re JJ,” Malcolm stammered.

Hayes smiled. “My family calls me Jay, but Holly loves nicknames and endearments,” he replied. “But then, you already knew that.” And the smile that appeared then was not one Malcolm had seen from the MACO before. But, with a start, he realized he knew that smile. Knew it intimately. Knew it lovingly. And slowly, the pieces fell into place. They had the same eyes, he realized, the same gestures, the same smiles… the same lips. His eyes shot back to the green ones before him at that particular thought, and he realized his mouth had fallen open, so he closed it on a grin that bordered on a smirk and just managed to get out “Yes, that much I did know...” before taking a gulp of his drink to cover the blush that was threatening to rise on his cheeks.

Holly’s words about JJ’s struggle with his new CO came back to him in a flash... and his own words in response echoed in his ears. He hesitated a little, at the possible ways he could play this, but maybe it was the presence of the rose, the glass in his hand, those green eyes studying him... all such strong reminders of Holly, it was as though she were prodding him forward.

“So,” he settled back a bit in his chair, as to give an impression of _not_ Commanding Officer conducting an interrogation. “Holly tells me you’ve been having a bit of a hard time getting along with your new CO.”

Hayes, bless him, had been gifted with Holly’s speed on the uptake when it came to figuring out what Malcolm’s mind was doing, and he fitted himself smoothly into the role. Only a slight hesitation betrayed his moment of doubt before he sipped his own drink and sat easily on the edge of the bed.

“I think there might be hope for a fresh start,” he began, just a hint of question in his tone.

“Precisely what I was going to suggest,” Malcolm replied. “Sometimes, COs can get a bit set in their ways, and adapting to new officers can be... challenging.”

“I think maybe,” Hayes began, and the way he looked down at the glass in his hands pulled softly at Malcolm’s heart. He really was so like Holly, how had he never seen it? “I gave him an especially hard time,” he looked carefully up at Malcolm. “I’d heard so much about him, you see, for so very long....” He trailed off, and Malcolm was afraid he wasn’t going to finish that thought, but he was certain—as sure as if Holly were whispering in his ear—that it was very important the thought be spoken aloud.

Malcolm gave a slight nod of his head, like he would with Holly, to encourage her to continue, hoping they were similar enough to be pushed in the same ways. It seemed he was right, because Hayes smiled at that, and took a deep breath to continue. “I’m afraid I felt I had too much to prove, and I was scared I could never live up to him.”

Malcolm wanted to kick himself then, because he knew—knew so clearly—he had been just awful to Hayes, right from the very beginning. There were 47 different reasons why he’d been that way, some of which he grudgingly admitted, some of which he was only beginning to realize.

“I wish you would have told me....” he sighed, and leaned forward in his chair, setting his drink on the desk. “You know I would have....”

The wistful smile and the tilt of his head told Malcolm, of course, Hayes had known that. And, he’d heard enough stories of JJ, knew him well enough from Holly talking about him, to know there was no way he would ever have done that. He would have wanted the opposite, in fact. Not to be given an easier time, out of preference, but to be pushed harder, tested further. He wasn’t sure if he’d have been able to do it, if he’d known. But at the same time, Malcolm was beginning to think that on some level he _had_ known.

Hayes was proving to have Holly’s ability to read him, and Malcolm wondered why he hadn’t noticed that before. “I did wonder,” he began. “If you didn’t know who I was, without realizing it....” Malcolm flinched slightly at that, and Hayes noticed. He bit his lip. “I think I told myself that was why... and it helped, in a way.”

Malcolm thought back to the lead up to their big blow up, the training suggestion by Hayes that precipitated it—and looking at it now, thru this new filter, he suddenly saw it completely differently.

“You were trying to protect me, weren’t you.” He watched Hayes for a reaction, but his face maintained a carefully neutral expression. “Holly had told you of her fears for me... that I’d....” He trailed off, unable to finish the thought, but Hayes did indeed know what he meant. He nodded slightly.

“I thought if I made sure the rest of your crew was better able to protect themselves, it might lessen the chances you’d have the opportunity....” Hayes was trying to be sympathetic, and Malcolm sensed that he had tried to understand Malcolm’s motivation, but he felt sure there was a limit to how much Hayes could grasp, regardless of how much Holly had told him. Hayes was a soldier. Malcolm... was a very different creature altogether. And yet, the similarities were clearly there. 

“For Holly’s sake,” it was only slightly a question, and Hayes had the sense to look nervous at that.

“Yes, sir,” he admitted, looking Malcolm in the eye.

Malcolm nodded, both at the admission, and the intentional use of the honorific. He was still for a moment while he thought, and was fairly sure he was making Hayes nervous. He could, after all, turn that into a disciplinary action, if he was so inclined. Once he’d thought it through, he huffed out a slight laugh, and felt his smile turn into a smirk.

“Well,” he started, “as there’s no way on earth I want the how and why of any of that coming out, I suppose it will remain between us.”

Hayes looked relieved but not surprised. Malcolm guessed Hayes would have known him well enough, through Holly, to have known that he would go to just about any lengths to keep his Section history buried very deeply indeed.

“Thank you, sir,” Hayes smiled. “And, likewise, what I know from Holly, no one will ever hear from me,” he spoke slowly, holding Malcolm’s gaze firmly.

They were sealing a bond, Malcolm knew, and it reminded him so much of his recent conversation with Holly, his thoughts turned naturally to that issue she had pressed. He’d said, after all, that he would trust JJ. He took a deep breath.

“ _I know_.”

Hayes did look surprised at that, and the way his head tilted and his eyes glistened as he took in the weight of the moment pulled at Malcolm’s gut.

He smiled slowly, almost visibly swallowing down the emotion, and once more Malcolm saw Holly mirrored in her cousin. Hayes managed to nod in acknowledgment, though he clearly didn’t dare speak just then, and Malcolm allowed himself the slightest of smirks in response. He raised his glass in the Major’s direction. “To Holly,” he said.

Hayes pulled himself together at that, and clinked his glass with Malcolm’s. “So,” he began, blinking his eyes to clear them. “How is my lovely cousin?”   

Malcolm smiled warmly at the thought, and something in Hayes’s expression said he was seeing the Malcolm that Holly had told JJ about, and not “Lieutenant Reed.”

“Splendid, as always,” he patted his belly. “Fed me far too well,” Hayes laughed. “And, how does she always have so much gardening for me to do? Do you never help her when you go?”

Hayes rolled his eyes, and mumbled something about blisters from chopping wood....

From there, they fell surprisingly easily into conversation, and while it felt utterly strange, it felt intriguingly familiar in a really, really wonderful way.

**Author's Note:**

> I’m rather afraid E will shake her head at me and my soft fluffiness, but she has only herself to blame.... If my Malcolm is too soft, too sweet, too lovey, it’s only to balance out her wonderful tormenting of him. :-) Also, I know I crammed in too many references, but they were fairly insistent. Like I said, it got away from me! Happy Birthday, lovely lady. I hope this made you smile half as much as your gifts to me have made me jump up and down in... well, delight.


End file.
